Are you a total vinyl junkie afflicted with excessive perspiration and an out-of-control obsession with the Miami music scene? Is your home a geodesic hut built from recycled record sleeves and used gym towels that also serves as a hostel for homeless local musicians? Do the screams and squeals and coos of Afrobeta's Cuci Amador make your palms go gooey?
Well, if you just ecstatically blurted, "Yes, yes, yes!" we at New Times salute your fanatical dedication to local music, obsolete music formats, and frequent use of antiperspirant-deodorant spray. Also, we assume your wet, record-collecting, tuneage-addicted ass will be attending Sweatstock 2012.
Some advice: Bring earplugs, plenty of pocket change, and a fresh can of Dr. Mist, 'cause this third edition of Sweat Records' anniversary bash/indie music marathon/Record Store Day celebration is loaded with more perspiration-inducing music and limited-edition vinyl than ever.
Sweatstock 2012: With Afrobeta, Ark IX, Plains, Arboles Libres, Pool Party, Axe and the Oak, the President, Adames, Container, and others. 2 p.m. Saturday, April 21, at Sweat Records, 5505 NE Second Ave., Miami, and Churchill's Pub, 5501 NE Second Ave., Miami; sweatrecordsmiami.com/sweatstock2012. Admission is free.
9 a.m. Yes, every rad Record Store Day begins with a lil' freestyle and shopping. So after crawling out of bed at dawn for a furious aerobics workout (soundtracked, of course, by your prized 1984 mint-condition copy of Debbie Deb's Lookout Weekend), go wash your body, get dressed, and sprint to Sweat for a vegan cupcake breakfast, some organic coffee, and an early-morning vinyl frenzy.
Noon. Now that your TK Records tote bag is bursting with a bunch of totally local purchases and a few select slabs from your fave American indies, it's time for a few hours of British football and a three-course booze brunch (cheap beer, whiskey shots, a dollop of foam skimmed off a pint of Guinness) at Churchill's Pub. Cheers, Sweatstocker.
3 p.m. Step 1: Add some extra bliss to your midafternoon buzz by swaying and singing along to Arboles Libres' Spanglish jams on the outdoor main stage. Step 2: Slip back inside Sweat's shop and snap up Nacho, Eddie, and Tony's five-song, self-titled slab. You will feel like the freest of trees.
5:59 p.m. Hang on, little space monkey. Because you're already buying some Arboles stuff and you're only about 60 seconds from shaking that indie ass with local rock crew Plains on the main stage, why not grab the dudely foursome's new eponymous LP? It's so compulsively listenable that you'll end up dangerously sleep-deprived.
6:31 p.m. All right, with almost exactly 29 minutes till it's time to meet Ark IX (AKA dubby sci-fi producer Mike Montuori) and dance like a sweaty cosmic love child, this would be an optimal time to alter your consciousness. Take a quick trip to the Churchill's water closet and we'll meet you in the outer spaceways. Uh, we mean outside at the main stage.
8:59 p.m. Bro, what happened? You totally missed Ark IX and the President and Deaf Poets. What? No, your fingers aren't turntable needles. Stop touching those records. Oh, shit. Let's go, 'cause Creep Guirdo and Pool Party are about to take over the Beached Miami stage. And there's absolutely no way you can handle a freakout with the Creep right now.
10 p.m. Just breathe, get a few spoonfuls of that cool treat from the Real Sorbet truck, and let Afrobeta's Cuci Amador and Tony Smurphio soothe your psychedelic ills while we chill under the starry Little Haiti sky. What? No, your fingers aren't turntable needles. Stop touching that copy of Beta's new album, Wig Party. Um, why are your palms all gooey, dude?
12:01 a.m. Whoa, it's a miracle that you even made it to midnight. Before things veer back to weird, grab a late-night snack (cheap beer, whiskey shots, a dollop of foam skimmed off a pint of Guinness) at the Churchill's bar. We're gonna get harsh with Container and Roofless Records on the patio. But you should definitely stay inside with Axe and the Oak. It'll be nice, dark, and cool. We will see your wet, record-collecting, tuneage-addicted ass next year, Sweatstocker.
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